HD 'Teeth, Ties & Tea'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; Hogwarts professors; EWE. There's a visiting professor at Hogwarts; a charming, oily, schmoozy professor, and Professor Malfoy is disgusted with the scandalous behaviour of Professor Potter. He wishes to object strongly, but finds himself unable.


**HD 'Teeth, Ties and Tea' **

Pairing: H/D  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: AU; EWEish; Hogwarts!Professors!Harry & Draco; rimming; bondage; misuse of heirloom sofas; slight bashing of smooth Lounge-Lizard type persons of Italian extraction (Please forgive me! I meant no harm, I swear! I adore Italians—and Lounge Lizards!)

For **alovelycupoftea** with huggles and kisselles and lovelles, to her desired prompts! 

"So, Malfoy, have you been keeping yourself busy recently? Noticed you've not been about much in the staff lounge lately." Professor Potter swallowed the last of his lapsong souchang and returned the Hogwart's crested cup to its saucer. Both were placed gently on the low table that stood between them.

Professor Malfoy sat back upon the cushioned settee, taking his tea with him, though his long, long legs remained genteelly crossed at the ankles. He sipped, and slowly swallowed, his throat moving gracefully as the warmth of the brew travelled down it.

The tiny pause spoke volumes. Volumes of what, exactly, the Potions Master wasn't telling.

"Have you, Potter?" Malfoy's voice when he replied was faintly guarded, but one cocked eyebrow expressed a nuance of deliberated surprise. "Hadn't realized you were paying any sort of attention to _my_ movements."

Professor Potter smiled, teeth gleaming whitely in the dull red of the hearth light. "But of course, Malfoy," he replied. "I always have an eye on you. Just ensuring you're not plotting something dastardly, naturally. Can't be too careful."

"Constant vigilance," Professor Malfoy agreed, and he, too, finished off his cup of tea. He gathered himself from his terribly casual pose and leant forward, hovering over the elf-supplied tea tray. Levitating the teapot with a tiny wave of a finger, he glanced up. "More, Potter?"

"Oh, no, thank you, Malfoy," the Head of Gryffindor House replied. "I'm awash already. But you go ahead, if you wish. Don't mind me."

"Don't mind if I do, Potter," Malfoy replied, with an edge to his tone that was sharp and biting, like a honed knife-edge. "Very thirsty this evening; can't fathom why."

With a barely visible jerk of the cream-coloured porcelain pot, Malfoy started off the pouring of his third cup of the hour. Potter's eyes never left him, roaming over the silver-gilt hair combed back in a neat queue, the perfectly ironed and starched white button-down, the near-midnight charcoal hue of the knife-pleated trousers that same shirt was neatly tucked into.

"Is that tie of yours vintage?" Professor Potter demanded suddenly. The stream of tea wavered and splashed a steaming drop into the saucer, and Harry's counterpart in Slytherin glared his ire. "Looks a lot like the one you wore when we were students." He stuck a hand out; caught the V-shaped end of the silk where it'd flapped forward.

Malfoy shrugged irritably and scowled at him. Stopped pouring, as there was an obstruction. "Get your filthy hands off, Potter. And what if it is? No harm in it."

Potter didn't let go, not for a second. He eyed the deep green hue of Slytherin's House tie, punctuated by a faint, thin silvery stripe and the writhing form of a very small serpent. It was a very elegant tie, suitable for any age of wearer, really, but it did especially nice things for one of Malfoy's pale, nearly bloodless colouring. "Hmm," Harry hummed, still examining the artifact intently. "Have I mentioned I've learnt a few new Charms from that visiting Professor?"

"No," Malfoy's voice was flat. "You've told me very little." The teapot settled to the tablecloth with a barely audible thump, having completed its ordained function. Malfoy busied himself with adding a dollop of cream and two sugar cubes, his hands moving round the bloody rude annoyance of Potter's arm as if it weren't present. His smooth head bobbed, and the Professor visiting Draco's personal parlour happened to notice that Hogwart's Potions Master Malfoy had his full lower lip caught fretfully between his teeth—and was chomping down quite hard on it. "In fact, you've not been sufficiently social recently to mention much of anything worth note to me, Potter."

Potter grinned, sly and slow. "Ah," he allowed, addressing the tie, apparently. "But the same could be said of you, Malfoy. I've barely had a chance to say 'hullo' in passing, you've spent so much time recently in Neville's new greenhouse. I expect it's very, er, welcoming there."

Catching up his cup, Draco jerked his torso back, with nary a splash of liquid, obviously with the intent of forcing the Hogwart's DADA Professor to release his precious antique neckwear. "As you say, Potter. It's lovely. Do let go now; that's bothersome of you."

"Is it?" Potter's green eyes gleamed a forest shade, deep as the shadows ever present in the Forbidden one. "About those new Charms Roberto taught me—"

"He of the almost unintelligible Italian accent?" Draco interjected snippily. "_That_ Roberto, Potter?"

"Mmm, that's the very one," Potter allowed, his tone just dripping with sinfully rich innuendo. "Lots of hidden depths, _that_ Roberto. I've learnt so much over this last week, I can't tell you."

"I just bet," Draco muttered, and took a small sip of the steaming beverage, the fumes of which tickled his flared nostrils. He glared covertly at Harry's fingertips, still clutching the very end of the narrow tongue of his school tie. "You are more than welcome to release me, Potter—at any time," he added, eyes moving to the broad tanned thumb, implanted like a blot on the ageing silk. "In fact, I strongly encourage you to do so—"

"Duplicitous!" Potter murmured, and there were rather more than one of Draco's old school ties in a twinkling and a blink. Three more, to be exact, all draped loosely over Draco's shoulders, where they dangled softly, brushing at his distended nipples through the thin silk of his shirt.

"Wha—?" His mouth dropped open, and Professor Malfoy gawked a bit before he got hold of himself. "What the _fuck_, Potter?" he frowned suspiciously.

"I think you've had rather enough of that," Potter said, finally releasing Draco's original regulation fashion accessory. He grasped Draco's cup and saucer instead, firmly, and deftly removed them from Professor Malfoy's suddenly lax fingers. "Too much caffeine causes one to lie awake nights, you know. And we can't have that."

"We can't?" Draco echoed, finally looking up. "Why not?" he added, the veriest hint of sour apples redolent in his tone. "It's not as though I've an urgent need for all my brain matter, Potter; I teach First and Third Years in the mornings, remember? And they're Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs," he added, with a customary sneer. "Hardly challenging."

Potter's hands had disposed of the teacup. They fell now, quite casually, to rest at either side of Draco's bent knees. "J'exige une chaise!" he demanded, and the settee clicked and groaned beneath the captive Slytherin's bottom, rapidly adjusting.

"Excuse me!" Draco yelped. "Potter! What in Salazar's name are you _doing _to my furniture? This was my grandmother's!"

Professor Potter smiled genially at his fellow professor, and slid gracefully to the floor, on the wrong side of the tea table: Draco's side. "As I mentioned, Roberto taught me any number of useful things before he departed back to Venice yesterday evening. Shall I show you a few more?"

"Good riddance to bad rubbish!" This was not a mutter at all; Malfoy clicked his teeth together on the statement, announced loud and clear in the quiet of his private sitting room, as he didn't have to watch what he said, here. "Tch! No, you shall _not_, Potter! I object to having my possessions Transfigured whilst I'm actively using them! Leave off—there's a good chap."

But the settee was quite, quite different at this point in proceedings, though the green velvet knap, heavily embroidered with silvery thread in a Morris-inspired intricate paisley, had not changed substantially. There were arms thrusting, though, bared of upholstery, and Potter—having shifted on his knees to crowd an increasingly agitated Slytherin Head of House against the cushions—quietly gathered up the Charmed school ties that still flapped unregarded, draped like small banners over Malfoy's broad shoulders.

"Hmm," Potter cocked his chin, ably possessing himself of a silk-socked ankle. His other hand dropped out of sight. "No, I don't think so, Malfoy," he replied, after a pause apparently spent deliberating. Draco huffed and jerked his foot, to no avail. "I think I should provide you a little demonstration, instead."

With one ankle secured, Potter's invisible hands moved to the other. "Stop that _at once_, you little bastard!" Malfoy ordered. He jostled his feet in their shiny loafers, but both were caught fast by that point. "Potter!" he cried. "Would you cease? It's late and I haven't time to play your games _now_—"

"No…" Harry replied, eyes downcast and unreadable. "You've been remarkably uninterested in my 'games', as you call them, lately." He also frowned, snatching one of Draco's thin, boney wrists tight out the air, where it had been waving under his very nose. "Far too occupied with good old Nev, from what I see, Malfoy." The wrist was tied down with nimble twists of green-and-silver silk. "Makes me quite curious, that does."

"Harrumph!" Draco huffed. He stuck his one remaining free limb behind his back in a futile effort to hide it. "As if you even noticed, Potter! Too busy with that scum-of the-Adriatic Roberto What'sit to bother your pointy little head and minuscule brain over wherever _I_ might gadding—and _don't _bother with denying it, either! Wanker!"

The Morris chair (as the settee had evidently decided it was going to be) creaked ominously and jerked abruptly, flinging its adjustable back downwards by a good six inches and taking Draco's startled person with it. Harry, who was expecting this, from what Malfoy could ascertain, rose up to balance on his kneecaps between his host's carefully bound legs. He walked the fingers of his right hand right up to Draco's pristine collar. Only one tie remained, and it was the vintage one still fastened about Malfoy's neck.

Draco swallowed hard. "Harry?" he croaked. He thought about struggling but Potter had a look in his eyes as if he meant business and Draco couldn't help the instantaneous tightening of his groin. His ears burned; he salivated in response. "Er—Harry?" he said again, or rather, gulped, his tongue thick in his mouth.

Potter loosened the Slytherin tie, along with Draco's top two buttons, and possessed himself grimly of Draco's hand. "Thank you, Malfoy; don't mind if I do," he smirked, and proceeded to bind Draco's forearm to the chair's carved cherrywood paw. It was carved with a lion's head, the mane wild with unruly curls. Draco glanced at it and winced.

"Look," he began, having regained his breath in a series of rapid blinks. The situation had rapidly deteriorated—at least in _his_ opinion—and he needed rather desperately to know what stupid notions the resident DADA Prof was entertaining this time. Merlin only knew, Potter had _always_ been a barmy git, and given to strange fancies. Teaching children (including their own lot, relics of each one's curiously failed marriages!) had to have only left the Saviour's addled mind even more firmly entrenched in that permanent state of confusion he appeared to exist in. Who knew what odd ideas that blasted Italian flirt had passed onto him, too! Bloody foreigners!

"You hardly need to restrain me, Potter," Draco pointed out, in a voice that was more than reasonable and polite. He, at least, was capable of communicating clearly. "I'm willing, as you full well know—"

"Sure about that, Malfoy?" Harry's dark brows winged up in a disbelieving curve. "Judging from your recent behaviour, I wouldn't have guessed it."

"What d'you _mean_, 'my recent behaviour'?" Draco demanded, gritting his teeth and enunciating through them. "_You're_ the one who's always disappearing with these foreign blokes, Potter—sneaking off to Hogsmeade at all hours, never coming to staff dinners! A whole entire weekend you were gone, damn and blast it, and with not a single, solitary word to _me_!"

He hardly noticed Harry's tripled tap on the side of the chaise or the movement of those well-cut lips. The Morris chaise tilted back even farther, and the forelegs rose up, just like magic, and Draco realized he was nearly flat on his back, revealed to Potter's determined stare. He squirmed, at a bit of a loss, and blushed at the glaringly obvious state of his groin. Potter—of all people—had no right to be angry, Draco thought. It was _he_ who'd been cruelly abandoned for some fly-by-night Italian Lothario, not Potter! He'd just been along to visit with Longbottom, being left at loose ends, and had been gamely attempting to sort out that pesky Potion he'd planned to present Potter with—but here Potter was practically accusing him of—of something! It behooved Draco, he felt, above all, to protest this foul smear and defend his sadly besmirched honour.

"You're wrinkling my cravats, Potter!" he exclaimed. This produced nothing of the effect Draco desired; he was _not_ released and Potter didn't cease grinning that nasty grin of his, the one that made Draco's spine tingle.

The chaise shifted again, grumbling in a subterranean, somewhat wooden manner, and Draco found that his bound legs were being slowly but surely separated, drawn apart at a wide angle. Furthermore, an upholstered bump up under his bum had his arse rising high in the air, just as inevitably. "Harry!" he yelped, now struggling in earnest. "What. Are. You. _Doing_?"

Harry grinned, the noisome, faithless berk. "Biting off your buttons, Malfoy," he replied. "And then I'll be drawing down your zipper with my teeth, and _then_—"

"Oh, fuck!" Draco moaned. "Get on with it, then, Potter! I'm fucking dying here!"

And he was. Apparently, slow acts of bondage had an effect upon his senses never before realized. But it wasn't like him to simply admit that, and certainly not to the annoying, ill-mannered Head of Gryffindor House. "Wait!" Draco exclaimed, understandably nervous. "What else did you do to me, you bastard?"

"Veritaserum, Malfoy," Potter smirked. "Two drops, in your cup, whilst you were summoning those chocolate biscuits you like so much. And now, I believe, I have a few questions to ask of you."

"No! Oh, no, no, no, Potter!"

"Oh, but yes, Malfoy," Harry hissed, and his normally open, friendly features settled into quite saturnine lines—dangerous ones, which caused Draco to shiver. He did, and then found he couldn't stop the trembling, especially when Harry bent his dark, messy head down and lipped the third button from the top on Draco's designer Muggle shirt.

A thread snapped, cleanly. Draco held his breath, and forcibly gathered all his wits about him. Perhaps Occlumens might do it, in a pinch. He'd _not_ answer Potter's questions willingly, that was certain!

"Now, Draco, do tell," Potter began. The damp button fell from his pursed lips and plopped onto Draco's skin wetly. "Firstly, why have you been in the habit of visiting Nev lately?" Another one was removed with a rifle-shot click of teeth—snap!—and Draco moaned almost inaudibly, head swimming, sensitized skin reacting to the brush of Potter's lips. "You were never…close before."

It wasn't a yes or no question, but…Draco thought he might twist the truth a little in the telling, perhaps. "Potions!" he gasped, and dropped his head limply on the cushioning when Potter ably disposed of yet another button. His shirt was gaping open now, and his cock had never been harder. His loins throbbed, and Draco closed his eyes in resignation.

"What sort of Potions, Draco?" Harry inquired, and the whisper melted Draco's intestines to a warm and heavy puddle.

"Just one," he admitted, unwillingly, eyes still shut tight. The Veritaserum—and he'd fucking _murder_ Potter for doing this later, when he was free of the ties that kept him spread-eagled on his own bloody settee-cum-chaise—impelled him. "For your stupid, stupid hair, Potter!"

"My hair?" Harry sounded very surprised indeed, and Draco felt this was highly unfair. After all, he'd spent some considerable time in the years since they'd begun their not-so-secretive liaison complaining of the state of Harry's hair. It was no bloody different than it had been twenty years ago, back in their Hogwarts days, and it still did the same thing to his fingers it had then: made them literally _itch_ to touch it.

"Yes, your hair, Potter!" he shouted, frustrated. The fourth, fifth and sixth buttons were gone from their accustomed places and his chest was heaving under wet circles of pearl. They trembled as he sucked in another furious gasp. "Your horrible hair is a torment and a blight, Potter! It should be banned, that's what!"

"Hmm," Harry didn't take offense, as he sometimes did, nor did he make mention of Draco's perfect style—not so perfect at the moment, mussed as it was by Draco's feverish tossing and rolling. "So you only spent time with Nev to—"

"Gather ingredients, Potter!" Draco gasped. Potter was licking him—fucking mouthing him!—right through the fabric of his thin woolen trousers! It was intense—it was causing his heart to stutter behind his ribcage; _fuck_! He'd likely come at this rate, without Harry's actual mouth every getting near his poor bits! "For the fucking Potion I'm making for you, blast it! Whilst you're off fucking shagging around with that damnable Roberto bloke, cheating on me!"

Oh, that had hurt. Draco hadn't liked to spend any time thinking about it, but he'd been…wounded. To the quick. He and Potter had developed an understanding, of sorts, being the only two male Wizards of approximate age and similar inclination currently on staff at Hogwarts. That was the only reason, of course: circumstantial proximity. But no one appreciated being snubbed and especially not for a piece of oily Italian arse with an even more annoying and smarmy attitude of superiority. The one time he'd come across Potter and the visiting Prof in an abandoned classroom near Gryffindor tower (and he'd only been in the vicinity because he needed to ask Potter a question as to scheduling their respective Quidditch teams, and for no other reason!) he'd gotten a bloody disgusting eyeful of just how small the respect was that foreigners held for personal space limitations! Talk about not being able to edge a single page of parchment between them—Salazar, it had been a bloody disgrace, witnessing the respectable Professor Potter, he the father of three children_ and _the retired Minister of the whole bloody Wizarding world, carrying on like a fucking teenager high on hormones!

Draco had been left feeling nauseous—so much so that he'd hied himself to greenhouses to pluck some fresh chamomile for a restorative tisane, and there Longbottom had come upon him, in the midst of some sort of sudden allergic reaction that had left his eyes bloodshot and watery and his throat awfully thick and raspy.

He was feeling that way currently: thick, that was. Thicker, yet, as his dick swelled and the zipper of his trousers descended in slow, entrancing motion, urged on by Potter's wicked teeth. Oh, but the sting of the Parselmouth was sweet, indeed!

"Harry!" he couldn't help but utter, "Harry, please!" He was reduced to begging and he hardly ever had cause to do that, but Potter—Potter led Draco to do all sorts of things he'd never considered himself capable of doing. Damned shame, that! Scurrilous!

"You want this, Draco?" Potter mumbled, his teeth still clamped on the metal of the tab. Draco shuddered and tried again to free himself. He thrust his hips up, in a bid to make Potter stop fucking asking him all these useless questions and pay attention to exactly what sort of pass he'd brought his fellow professor. "You want me?"

"Yesss!" Draco moaned. "Oh, please, Harry—you're killing me! Touch it, for fuck's sake! With your fucking tongue this time! Fucking suck me, you blasted twat!"

The mouth withdrew, smiling sleekly. Harry grinned at him whilst he jerked Draco's remaining garb down his rolling hips, exposing him to cooling air and hot breath, still tea-flavoured, no doubt. "Vanish, will you?" Potter requested amiably, touching a casual fingertip to where the fabric had bunched at Draco's bent knees. "There. That's better, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Draco answered, hapless victim to the Veritaseum still. "_Harry_!"

"What else did you do with Nev, Draco?" Harry asked. His fingers—gods! Those incredible fingers!—found the ties tightening and relaxing 'round Draco's wrists and ankles and smoothed over them. Draco moaned, long and loud, and thrashed, uncaring of his grandmother's bloody heirloom.

"Nothing!" he admitted. "No! Not noth—I _cried_, alright? Bloody cried, Potter! Because I thought—I thought you were—you'd had enough of me, alright? Just stop, now," he pleaded, and took a deep, shivery lungful of air. His chest felt so constricted, even though his shirt was spread wide open. Buttons rolled off and hit the polished wooden floor with little pings as he squirmed.

"You were spending time with your Italian, remember?" he continued, having managed to compose himself a smidge by breathing deeply and staring off past Potter's one shoulder. If he looked into those eyes, he was done for, and he knew it. "Left me at loose ends, rather, so I was working on yet another attempt to exert some reasonable amount of control over that blowsy coif of yours and I'd naturally been over to consult with Longbottom a few times on the matter, and then, when I saw—"

But he couldn't say what he'd seen. He swallowed instead, and went on around it, closing out the sight of Potter's curious face by staring fixedly at the mantel. "I, er, was not completely well, that particular afternoon—feeling dizzy—so I, ah, took advantage of Longbottom's kind offer to have dinner in his quarters, and we may have had a bit to drink afterwards."

"You'd a mark on your neck the next morning, Draco," Harry interrupted quietly, _dangerously_, "and I wasn't the one who put it there. Explain _that_, if you will."

"He," Draco swallowed yet again—his throat was very scratchy suddenly, despite the tea earlier—and croaked: "Um, he expressed interest and I told him immediately that I was _not_. Interested, that is. That I had you—thought I had you." Draco faltered to a painful halt and his shifted his gaze to Potter's nose. He stared at his lover's lovely beak and then blinked a bit at the hard line of Potter's jaw, the narrow, marbled gleam in those beautiful eyes. "Harry?" he asked, slowly.

"Yes, Draco?"

"Do I, still? Or—"

"What?" Harry cut in, and grasped—_finally_, thank Merlin!—Draco's cock. "What, Draco?" he growled. "Do you still _what_?"

"Harry!"

Potter's mouth was no longer just a few short inches from Draco's own. It had joined the rest of Potter, which was crouched over Draco's chilly arse, and it was doing something mind-altering. Sucking…and licking—thrusting! With absolutely no warning whatsoever, so that Draco jerked helplessly and wailed, softly.

"Harreee!"

The chaise-longue cradled him gently, but he couldn't squirm away, not for the life of him, and Potter's tongue was fucking merciless. Even when it was being used for speaking—_especially _when it was being used thusly.

"Do you like Nev, Draco?" Potter asked—_and_ jabbed _and_ poked, and then licked a wet hot stripe from the dimple at the small of Draco's back clear to his tighter-than-tight balls.

"No!"

"Do you want him?" Potter was relentless, fastening his lips immediately round the circumference of Draco's hole and sucking him hard, till he arched in spine-cracking protest, squealing.

"No—n-no!" he stuttered, when he could speak again, and blushed at the depth of his own ruin at the hands—mouth!—of Potter.

"Whom d'you want, then?" Harry asked casually, and Draco's eyes were leaking, leaking and he turned his head, so as not to have even the slightest chance of glimpsing Potter's expression.

"You, you bloody wanker," he whispered, barely audible, and had no control over himself as he came, Potter's tongue deep in his arse, his thighs quivering like bloody blancmange, his famous control shot to pieces. "You, only you," he mouthed, silent. "Only ever you. Harry."

He was pinned to the fucking chair the very next second it seemed, a cock like an iron piling up his still fluttering arse, a warm weight pressing down hard on his aching chest. Draco's eyes would not cease their endless dripping, and his nose was running as well. It was all so disgustingly wet, and slick, and he was being jolted back and forth on the chaise like a bloody ragdoll.

"You, you, you," he gabbled, and was totally grateful when Harry snogged him firmly and shut him the Hell up. And sawed into him, back and forth, in an intoxicatingly rapid rhythm that stole his breath away and caused him to forget all about Italians and his silly illusions as to proper personal spacing.

Until Harry groaned, deep and guttural, poking insanely at Draco's prostate, and came, filling Draco's needy arse with the nectar of life.

0o0

"Stupid Slytherin."

Draco said nothing. What was there to say? Also, that hadn't seemed like a question.

"Blind, dense, can't see the Forbidden forest for the bloody trees, Slytherin!" Harry went on, and then nipped Draco's left nipple in an excess of ire.

"Mmphff!" Draco grunted, feeling crushed in more ways than one.

"Fucking lame-brained, jealous, callous Slytherin!" Harry pronounced, and Draco would've said something then in protest, at last, but his mouth was full.

When Potter finally pulled away, they were both panting in sharp gasps, breathing tea fumes up each other's nostrils.

"I have _never_, in all my life, having dealt with more than my fair share of madmen, women and Firsties, _ever_ had to deal with anyone as needlessly complicated as _you_, Malfoy! See here—I fucking well _adore_ you, arsewipe!" Potter gritted at him, jaw tight and scowling darkly. "Am _not_ cheating on your idiot, poncey, piss-ant of a person, either! Fucking _ask_ me next time—and don't just assume, snot-for-brains!"

"But—"

"But, _nothing_, Malfoy. Now—tell me one last thing before that shite wears off."

"N-No! Shut up, Potter! I will _not_ say another incriminating syllable if I don't have to—and you can't force me, either! You've gone and shagged the Veritaserum right out of me, idjiit!—and—_and_!"

"Oh, but you will, Draco," Potter purred. He quirked those speaking brows of his, charmingly. "Do you want to make this official?"

"Yes!" The word ripped out of him; Draco blinked and gulped and was tremendously taken aback by how fast it had tumbled—no, surged!—out of his sore, reddened, much-bitten lips. "Yes, you fucker, _yes_!"

"Very good, Draco. And finally," Potter was grinning that evilly dangerous grin of his again, "will you please leave my poor hair the feck alone, Draco? Forever after, until death do us part?"

"No!" Draco shrieked, horrified. "Absolutely not, Potter! It demands care—it begs for it, Harry! Someone has to be responsible for that—that crow's nest! I bloody well have to be seen in public with you; there are blasted children involved here—_impressionable_ children, Hogwarts students!"

"You love my hair, Malfoy," Harry slid in neatly, and smirked.

"I _do_ love your hair, Potter, but that's not the point here—oops! Oh, _shite_!" Draco screamed back at that face he just dearly wanted to pound into smithereens—and then slid into an instantaneous, involuntary stasis. The deadliest of all personal sins had just been committed: he'd admitted—of his own free will, blast it, just how he felt about Potter's laughable mop.

Harry snogged him, still grinning, and, for the second time that hour, Professor Malfoy was grateful to be rendered effectively speechless, as there were _no words in existence_ that would serve to let him out of this one. He'd dug his very own hole, with his very own hands.

Gods! But he was so very, very _fucked_!

Finite


End file.
